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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473576">Reality Check</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/odainath/pseuds/odainath'>odainath</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Devil Wears Prada (2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:42:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473576</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/odainath/pseuds/odainath</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Miranda and Andy meet again almost a year after what they deem to be the Paris ‘incident’, their relationship quickly changes and becomes something more.  However, neither wish to admit that it’s anything more than physical.  Will they give in to fate or continue to lie themselves?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>153</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. First Encounters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Disclaimer: Any characters and places you may recognise in this story belong to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox.  I am taking the events that were given and tweaking them a little bit.  I hope you enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Maybe successful is the wrong word.  She’s an <strong>accomplished</strong> woman, perhaps not successful.” – Meryl Streep on Miranda Priestly.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Andy paid little attention as she weaved her way through the Manhattan traffic.  She was on her way to a charity benefit, held out of town where she would be reporting on the various speakers.  It wasn’t entirely what she had envisioned when she had left Paris that fateful day nearly a year ago, but she was still trying to make her ascent through the back-stabbing field of reporting.  She took a deep breath as she neared the hotel which was hosting the benefit. </p><p>The car park was nearly full and she was forced to park well away from the front entrance.  People were already entering, men in suits, women in perfectly cut dresses and she glanced down at herself, grimacing.  Her wage didn’t allow for such trivialities as couture clothing and she no longer had access to Chanel and Valentino with a mere phone call.  To put bluntly, she was remarkably underdressed.  Still, she was here as a reporter, not as a fashion employee so it shouldn’t be of too much concern.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and opened the door before stepping out.  Her attention was caught by an all-too-familiar silver Mercedes and her stomach fell.  She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised that Miranda would be attending; New York’s rich and famous were all going to be there and … well, it went without saying that the woman considered to be the leader of the fashion empire who was worth millions of dollars would be here.  She was likely a guest of the Mayor.</p><p>She slung her bag over her shoulder as she walked towards the front steps, showing her media pass to the security guard.  It was still early evening but the sun was falling quickly, leaving her surroundings almost pitch black.  No one spared her a second glance as she made her way through the crowd, sitting down at a small table assigned for reporters.  She fished her notebook from her bag, waiting as a speaker called them all to attention and giving a perfunctory round of applause for the first guest.</p><p>To be honest, she hated reporting on matters such as charity benefits.  It wasn’t ‘true’ investigative reporting and would be condensed to a tiny article on page six.  She thought of her bold statement to Nate so many months ago.  <em>“Then I can do what I came to New York to do…” </em> Almost two years later, she still wasn’t there yet.  And no longer had Nate to listen to her evening rants, she added.  They had barely lasted two months after he moved to Boston.</p><p>“Hello, everyone,” a soft voice she sometimes heard in her sleep uttered.</p><p>Andy dropped her pen to the ground and scrambled to pick it up.  So, Miranda was a speaker at the benefit.  No doubt Runway had donated money to this charity, perhaps trying to improve its image of accommodating only the very rich and famous.  <em>And very thin,</em> she added sarcastically.  It was a smart move, trying to improve their circulation numbers.  Though she was certain Runway continued to make huge amounts of money.  She thought back to her conversation with Nate again.  <em>“They can waste another $300,000!”</em></p><p>She shook her head, her pen flying across the page as she wrote down what Miranda was saying.  The woman never once raised her voice but no one spoke a word and everyone leant forward as they listened, wanting to hear every word she said. </p><p>The woman knew how to hold people’s attention.</p><p><em>“Thank you,”</em> Miranda concluded, nodding once as there was a huge burst of applause before walking off-stage and sitting down next to an obviously frazzled Emily.  Miranda was dressed simply in a black pencil dress, nothing too ostentatious; the jewellery all understated, but Andy found herself not looking away.</p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>“What the hell are you doing here?” a British voice demanded as she sat at the bar after the different speeches had concluded.</p><p>“My job,” she answered drily, waving over the bartender and asking for a gin and tonic.</p><p>“And how’s that going?” Emily snapped sarcastically.  “Writing big political pieces?  Wasn’t that why you up and left?”</p><p>Andy scowled as the tumbler was placed in front of her.  “Not yet,” she admitted.  “But I’m getting there…”</p><p>“Oh, really?”</p><p>“Yes, really!”  she hissed before she took a sip of her drink.  “What does it matter to you?” she asked.  “You’ll be going to Paris this year, won’t you? I would have thought you’d be ecstatic.”</p><p>Emily gave a bitter laugh.  “Not after your little stunt.  You left the woman a note, Andrea!  A <em>note.</em>  You couldn’t even give a proper resignation?  Who the hell does that?”</p><p>Andy closed her eyes for a moment.  It seemed that two cases of designer clothes hadn’t completely softened Emily’s attitude towards her or heightened her opinion.</p><p>“You left her entirely alone,” Emily was continuing.  “I had to try and find another assistant from over here!”</p><p>Andy took another sip of her drink.  “Perhaps I could have handled it differently…” she admitted.  “But, I just…”</p><p>Emily raised her eyebrows.  “Differently, indeed,” she hissed, spinning neatly on her stiletto heel and marching through the crowd. </p><p>She watched as Emily crossed the room, stopping at the side of a familiar platinum-haired woman.  Miranda Priestly appeared to have seen the entire conversation between herself and Emily but, apparently didn’t consider it of any true value as she promptly turned her back, not sparing Andy a second glance.</p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>Another five gin and tonics later and Andy knew she was well and above the legal driving limit.  It went without saying, she would likely be sleeping in her car as she doubted she could afford even the cheapest rooms here.  She rose to her feet, stumbling slightly but managed to keep herself upright.  The receptionist at the front desk gave her a look of disdain as she approached.</p><p>“Have you anything available?” she asked.</p><p>The woman laughed snootily.  “No.”</p><p>Andy nodded, unsurprised and headed towards the entrance doors.  To her surprise, she glimpsed Miranda about to head into the elevator.  She had assumed that with the chauffeured car, the editor would be heading home tonight. </p><p>It appeared not.</p><p>She remembered Emily’s words from not too-long-ago.  <em>“You left her entirely alone!”</em> and her admission she could have handled it differently.  Perhaps she should apologise … make amends with someone she considered to have been of huge influence?  Dutch courage ran through her veins and she rushed forward, managing to slip inside before the elevator doors shut.</p><p>To say Miranda looked angry was an understatement.</p><p>“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she spat.</p><p>“I just wanted to say something,” Andy said hurriedly.  “About what I did, and …”</p><p>Miranda took a deep breath as she folded her arms across her chest.  “Spit it out, then,” she snapped.</p><p>“Look, I’m sorry,” Andy said.  “It was wrong, but I just…”  She shrugged her shoulders.  “I can’t even really explain.”</p><p>Miranda gave a false laugh.  “<em>Not everyone,”</em> she recited.  “I think that explains everything, don’t you?”</p><p>“I don’t want to be a person that crushes others,” Andy said quickly.</p><p>The editor pursed her lips.  “And how’s that working out for you in the reporting world?” she asked sarcastically.  “You’ve got very far in the past year, haven’t you?  And look now, reporting charity benefits.  Riveting.”</p><p>It was cruel, cutting, much like Miranda always had been, but also absolutely on-point.  Even Andy couldn’t deny the truth in the other woman’s words.  The elevator door opened and Miranda stepped out, not sparing Andy a further glance.  For reasons unbeknownst to herself, Andy followed.</p><p>“Look, maybe you’re right,” she said, “but…”</p><p>Miranda halted outside the penthouse suite and reached inside her bag for the swipe card which she pressed against the lock.  “Just go, Andrea,” she said softly.  “What’s done is done.”  She opened the door but hesitated, frowning as she looked to the side.  “How much have you had to drink?” she demanded.</p><p>It wasn’t what Andy had expected and she faltered.  “Too much,” she admitted.</p><p>“And how are you getting home?” Miranda asked.</p><p>Andy shrugged.  “I’ll sleep in my car.  Go back in the morning.”</p><p>Miranda rolled her eyes as she grabbed the other woman’s arm and pushed her inside the suite.  “That’s hardly safe.  You can sleep on the sofa,” she said, nodding towards the living room. </p><p>Andy tried to protest but Miranda had already turned in the opposite direction and headed to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.  Clearly, she still didn’t like taking ‘no’ for an answer.  Though she should feel flattered that Miranda still seemed to show some level of concern.  From the reference to the couch, it was clear the woman wasn’t entirely cold-hearted, despite the rumours.</p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>She woke the next day, curled up in a ball on the sofa.  Her head throbbed as she looked around the suite, not entirely sure where she was or how she had got there.  She remembered the bar, remembered Emily, remembered the conversation with Miranda…</p><p>Andy sat up; it was still early with the sunlight barely gracing the horizon and the suite was silent.  She slowly rose to her feet, wishing she had ibuprofen and staggered towards the kitchen to get herself a glass of water.  She kept silent, not wanting to wake Miranda and headed to the other bathroom of the suite, stripping and letting her clothes fall to the floor.  She turned the water on as hot as she could stand before stepping inside, letting the hot water pound against her back and making her feel slightly more human.</p><p><em>Now what, </em>she found herself thinking.  She turned off the shower and dried herself off, cringing as she dressed in the clothes from the previous night.  The scent of alcohol made her feel slightly nauseous.  A quick hair fluff later and she went back into the living room, her eyes falling immediately on the note in the centre of the coffee table with <em>‘Andrea’</em> written in a familiar hand across the folded page.</p><p>Andy walked across the room and picked up the note, steeling herself for what the other woman might say.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, it was harsh and an echo of Miranda’s words from the previous night.</p><p>
  <em>A-</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How’s that working for you?</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Self-doubt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Miranda's note leads to some serious self-doubt from Andy and, surprisingly, Miranda herself.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“I thought I had more strength and mastery.” – George Elliot, ‘Middlemarch’.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Miranda barely paid any attention to Emily who offered a falsely bright smile as she entered the office, throwing her bag and coat onto the desk.  She had left the hotel early, leaving a note for one Andrea Sachs on the coffee table before she left.  A cruel smirk pulled at her lips as she thought of the simple five words she had written.</p><p>
  <em>How’s that working for you?</em>
</p><p>Childish, vindictive, and yet entirely accurate.</p><p>Miranda took a sip of the waiting Starbucks, letting the caffeine work its wonders.  It had been a good benefit before Andrea Sachs had made her appearance.  She had rubbed shoulders with the right people, kissed the right cheeks and laughed at the right jokes.  She flicked the page of the first newspaper and fought the urge to snicker. </p><p><em>‘Fashion Legend Miranda Priestly!’</em> </p><p>Not their usual description.  Only last month she had been given the moniker ‘Dragon Lady’ by the same journalist.  Perhaps Rupert Murdoch was growing fonder of her as the years passed.</p><p>“Miranda?”</p><p>She looked up, unsurprised to see Nigel walking into her office.  Things were decidedly more frosty between them since Paris.  They didn’t laugh the way they used to; they didn’t work with the same easy camaraderie.  They were both professional enough that Runway hadn’t suffered, but it simply wasn’t as easy as it had been previously.  She had tried to apologise once, months ago, but he had held up his hand and cut her off mid-sentence.</p><p><em>“Would you do it again?”</em> he had demanded, letting some of the understandable anger leak into his voice.  She hadn’t bothered to answer, merely nodded.  <em>“Then don’t say it, if you don’t mean it!”</em></p><p>“Yes, Nigel?” she asked, bringing herself back to the present.</p><p>He frowned for a moment, and she thought for a second she recognised concern.  Concern that vanished a second later as he placed down the latest Runway draft and flicked to a relevant page.</p><p>“These look dreadful,” he said bluntly.  “The colour scheme doesn’t work; the model isn’t right and the lighting is dull.”</p><p>“Then we need to fix it, don’t we?” she snapped irritably, a sarcastic tone in her voice.  “We have another week for that piece.”  She reached for the draft and began to write in the margins.  “First,” she said, her pen rushing across the page.  “Change the colour scheme to one that’s more pastel, we can use this same model but we’ll sharpen her make-up.  Use blood red for lipstick? Perhaps give a deep, dark eyeshadow.  Nearly black.  You know the drill.  Also, use a stronger contrast for the light.  Perhaps a harsher fluorescent?”  She finished writing with a small dot and took a deep breath before handing the draft back to Nigel.  “Anything else?” she demanded.</p><p>He looked at her, taken-aback, his eyes wide.  His brief concern had vanished to be replaced with grudging respect that he also quashed down before giving a small nod.</p><p>“Then I guess, that’s all,” she said, picking up the book and handing it back to him.  “Shut the door behind you.”</p><p>He left without another word, closing the door a little harsher than usual.  She reached again for her Starbucks.</p><p><em>Truth is, there is </em> <strong>no one </strong> <em>who can do what I do.</em></p><p>Her words from over a year ago echoed in her mind.</p><p>She hadn’t been lying.</p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>The weather tried to claw its way inside, buffeting against the glass and making the window frames shudder.  Thunder could be heard from every direction, followed by bursts of lightning that sent the clouds into sharp relief.  The rain fell down in heavy sheets until one couldn’t see six-foot ahead.  Andy took a breath before she bolted from the cab and into her office.  The few seconds in the rain ensured her coat and hair were drenched and she hurriedly hung up her trench, eager to stop further water soaking into her shirt. </p><p>Her colleagues barely glanced up from their desks as she entered.  It had seemed wonderful and warm when she had been interviewed those months before.  Now, of course, she knew the system far better and had discovered a harsh and corrupt system which seemed to revolve around petty jealousies between reporters and newspapers. </p><p>“Andy, I need you in here.”</p><p>Her new boss, Edward Stokes, waved her in from his desk and she stopped only to throw her bag on her desk before going inside.</p><p>“Close the door, please.”  His voice was brisk, harsh, authoritative. Andy shut the door and he nodded towards the chair, waiting until she had sat down before speaking again.  “I need you to go to a luncheon tomorrow,” he said without further preamble.  “This one is going to be held downtown.”</p><p>She found herself slumping slightly in her chair.  This wasn’t what she was meant to be.  She was meant to be <em>investigating, </em>writing things that <em>mattered, <strong>not</strong> </em>writing mere<em> <strong>gossip pieces</strong>.</em></p><p>“Edward, please,” she protested.  “I can do more than this if you’ll just let me …” </p><p>“You don’t have the experience,” he interrupted.</p><p>“You won’t let me have any!” she spat back, fuming  “If I try and do something, you tell me it’s irrelevant and then you send me all over the city to these lunches and dinners.  And for what?  So I can tell New Yorkers who is dating who?”</p><p>“That’s what sells papers, these days,” he said with a shrug.</p><p>She shook her head.  “You can’t truly believe that.”</p><p>He snickered.  “Oh yes, I can.  So, luncheon tomorrow.  I expect a draft by Wednesday.  Do you have anything about what happened last night?”</p><p>Andy faltered.  Last night.  Too much alcohol.  And a very blunt ex-boss.</p><p>“I can do more than this, Edward,” she tried again.  “Please, just let me …”</p><p>“Draft about the luncheon by Wednesday,” he said, pulling his keyboard towards him.  “Notes about last night by this evening.  I think we can make it part of a larger piece.”</p><p>She knew when an argument was lost and rose to her feet again, making her way to her desk.  She sat down, pulling her laptop from its case and hooking it up to the power point. It was nearly flat, courtesy of her night at the hotel and took a few moments to boot up.  Andy twisted in her seat, hearing the faint sound of Miranda’s note rustle in her jeans pocket.</p><p><em>A-<br/></em> <em>How’s that working for you?</em></p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>Hours later, the rain hadn’t lessened and Andy sat on the edge of her windowsill watching as it thundered against the pavement, bouncing up from the sidewalk.  It was pitch black outside, the streetlamps faint bursts of light through the rain and reflected on the pavement.  She reached for a bottle of water as she stuck one leg out the window and stared down the street.  She’d been forced to move to a tiny flat after Nate had gone, but had come to love the small apartment with its rickety walls and wooden floors. </p><p>It was <em>hers</em> and hers alone. </p><p>A runaway umbrella bounced down the street, startling her.  She had written up a piece for Edward about the dinner.  Not adding her tete-a-tete with Emily or with Miranda.  It had been frivolous and unimportant, but well-written and Edward had taken it with a small smile and sent it down to the printing room within an hour of receiving it deeming it could be <em>‘one of many.’</em></p><p>She knew she should feel proud, after all, she was a <em>published author</em> but it still felt like nothing.  Her mother and father were of the opposite view; both rung her frequently to congratulate her on her latest by-lines.  But the fact remained, she was writing <em>gossip pieces.</em>  Meanwhile, a certain white-haired editor had just managed to land an interview with one of her favourite authors, complete with an excerpt from their latest book.</p><p>
  <em>Turns out there’s more to Runway than just fancy purses …</em>
</p><p>No one believed her then, and no one believed her now.  That didn’t stop her from buying the magazine and she often found herself flicking through the pages, noting the photograph shoots by Nigel and – to her astonishment– an article from Emily which was surprisingly good.  A particularly loud clap of thunder startled her from her reverie and she jumped up and closed the window. </p><p>Her eyes fell for what felt like the umpteenth time on the note which now rested on the hall table.  She knew she should throw it away, but found herself reading and re-reading the slightly slanted script.  Miranda had beautiful handwriting, which almost resembled calligraphy. </p><p>Andy went into the kitchen, filling up her bottle of water.  Miranda had been quick that morning, leaving in the few minutes Andy had been in the shower.  She had expected to see the editor-in-chief before she left, wanting to say ‘thank you’ for letting her sleep on the hotel sofa.  Instead, she’d received a note that cut her to the quick.</p><p><em>And continued to</em>, she added bitterly. </p><p>She took a deep breath before she turned off the light and headed to her bedroom, leaving the note on the table.  In reality, should she have expected anything else?  The woman was, as she’d said before numerous times, <em>vicious.</em>  But this … she had known exactly what it would do even as she wrote the note.  She knew that Andy would read and re-read.  Wanting to know exactly what she meant; wanting her to doubt her choice those months ago.  Wanting her to doubt <em>herself.</em></p><p><em>And she’d done a superb job</em>, Andy thought angrily as she hurled herself onto her mattress and glared at the ceiling.  <em>Superb.</em></p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>The second photo-shoot had gone wonderfully, Miranda noted with a degree of vindictive glee as she flicked through the latest book, delivered barely ten minutes ago by her newest second assistant.  She hadn’t said anything to the girl, waiting until she’d left before going downstairs to retrieve the book.  Now, in her living room with a glass of wine, she made annotations and crossed out anything she deemed unnecessary.</p><p>After 20 years at the helm, it was all done relatively quickly and she headed back upstairs towards her bedroom.  The girls were at their father’s house for the week but had called earlier that evening.  She hated the days they were not there; hated the silence.  She moved into her en suite where she began the lengthy process of disassembling the 'fashion legend’.  The make-up was rinsed away, the dress and underwear were thrown into the laundry basket, the jewellery replaced into its cases.  Minutes later, she barely recognised herself in the mirror.</p><p>Right here, right now; she wasn’t <em>the</em> Miranda Priestly.  She was a 50-year-old woman in a far-too-empty house who missed her children.</p><p><em>A-<br/></em> <em>How’s that working for you?</em></p><p>She closed her eyes for a moment.  It may not have been working well for Andy but, if she were honest with herself, it wasn’t working too well for her either.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>Please review!</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Luncheon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This was the longest, dullest luncheon in history, Andy thought irritably, crossing her legs to try and make herself more comfortable.  The room was crammed full of strangers she neither knew nor cared about, talking about topics she had no interest in.  It was, truth be told, painful.  She rested her notebook against her knee, scribbling down various names and facts but found herself barely paying attention.</p><p>Another reason for her inattention?</p><p>The Calvin Klein office directly across the road.  The Calvin Klein office which now had a distinctly stressed-looking British woman out the front pushing bag upon bag into the trunk of the car with the help of a long-suffering driver.</p><p>“If you’ll join me in a round of applause …” the final speaker said from the podium.  The crowd all rose to their feet, giving a standing ovation.  Andy gave two perfunctory claps before throwing her notebook in her bag and running outside, no longer content to simply wait and watch. </p><p>The trunk was full and the driver slammed it shut before opening the backdoor for Emily who still held two bags in her hands.  It seemed that Miranda was getting one heck of a wardrobe that day.  She wondered for a moment if they were dresses, skirts or blouses, then tried to remember why on earth she cared.</p><p>“I saw your piece in Runway,” she said by way of greeting.</p><p>Emily promptly dropped the remaining bags to the ground.  Andy reached down to help her pick them up and was slapped away. </p><p>“Yes, well,” the other woman snapped.  “I’m not entirely stupid, despite what you may think.”</p><p>Andy bristled.  “I never thought you were stupid.”</p><p>“Pssh …” Emily said with a roll of her eyes.  “Of course you did.  You thought I was an idiot from the second you met me.”</p><p>“I thought you were a touch hyperactive,” Andy tried to placate, feeling slightly uncomfortable.  “Not an idiot…”</p><p>Emily raised a sceptical eyebrow.  “Keep telling yourself that, Andrea.”</p><p>She hurled the remaining bags into the backseat and folded herself inside the Mercedes, ordering the driver to take them back to the Runway office without sparing Andy a second glance.  Andy watched the car until it turned the corner before going back inside.  The guests were mingling and she weaved her way through the crowd, looking for the names she had written down before she had arrived.  The names barked at her by a stressed-looking Edward who had met with their Editor earlier that morning and obviously been given bad news.</p><p>“Excuse me?” she said, giving one man a small smile.  “Do you mind if…?”</p><p>He took one look at her and walked away without a word, heading towards another, older and more well-known reporter who gave Andy a petty smirk.  Annoyed, she grabbed a glass of water, heading for another name on the list.  Another name who also walked away.  Apparently, she wasn’t important enough to be spoken to.</p><p>Unfortunately for them, that could easily be written into a piece in itself, Andy thought with a degree of spitefulness.  <em>Anti-social habits of the upper-class, a reluctance to reveal…</em>  It could all be made into so much more than it truly was.  She finished her notes with a quick dot before deeming the lunch a lost cause and walking through the front door again, raising her hand to hail a taxi.  Almost of their own accord, her thoughts went back to the brief slander piece she had written the day previously.  A tiny piece that had seen thousands of web visitors, even earning her a reluctant ‘congratulations’ from a fellow reporter who worked in the opposite cubicle.</p><p>A yellow cab pulled over and she got into the back, giving the newspaper’s address before resting her forehead against the window glass and closing her eyes. </p><p>“You okay, love?” the driver asked with apparent concern as he glanced in the rear-vision mirror.</p><p>Andy exhaled a long breath before opening her eyes, noting with a bitter sense of irony they were passing the Elias-Clarke building.  “I’m fine,” she whispered, her words fogging the window.  “Absolutely fine.”</p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>Thirteen floors above, Nigel and Emily were talking.</p><p>“You saw Six?” he said with a frown.  “I wonder why she was there.”</p><p>“There was some sort of get-together,” Emily answered with a shrug of her shoulders.  “I didn’t stop and chat.” </p><p>She gathered a heap of notes into a pile, slamming them lightly on the table to align them neatly before she placed them into a file.  She had been happy, grateful even when Andy had rung up earlier that year and given her two huge cases of couture clothing.  Miranda’s long-suffering driver Roy had turned up at Emily’s building later that evening and helped her haul them into her apartment where she had spent at least three hours trying them on, deciding which she liked and which she hated, what needed to be taken in and what could be left as is.  However, after dealing with ten months of Miranda Priestly minus her second assistant, she felt little to no pleasant feelings towards her former colleague.  The clothes, she had decided, were a throwaway action, a means to placate and nothing more.   </p><p>“She can write yet another earth-shattering article,” Emily added sarcastically.</p><p>Nigel laughed once, still frowning.  He had genuinely liked Andrea Sachs, though was unable to deny the difficulty they faced once she’d left the Runway office.  Miranda had been different once the other woman had abandoned her in Paris.  She never once made any reference to Andrea Sachs or said her name.  It was an unwritten rule of the office that no other person was allowed to mention her either.</p><p>He felt eyes upon him and glanced up, able to recognise Miranda’s profile anywhere as she neared the conference room.  She didn’t say a word as she walked through the door and sat down, pulling an article draft towards herself.  There was no doubt she had heard the conversation and he tensed, waiting for himself and Emily to be torn apart.</p><p>“This is uninteresting,” Miranda said dismissively, pushing the article towards Emily.  “Re-write it.  Have another version in tonight’s book.”</p><p>Emily glanced at Nigel in surprise as she nodded; clearly she had also expected to be reprimanded.  “Of course, Miranda,” she stuttered eventually.</p><p>Miranda nodded, flicking through photographs and sorting them into separate piles.  She didn’t spare Nigel or Emily a second glance as she continued and they both headed towards the door, confused but not wanting to push their luck.  An angry Miranda Priestly was ruthless, they both knew that all-too-well.</p><p>“That’s was… weird,” Emily whispered as they entered Miranda’s reception space.  She walked over to her desk and sat down, laying the draft article next to her while she pulled up the computer file and began typing. </p><p>Nigel leaned against her desk, frowning and didn’t bother to disagree.  A tiny flicker of concern for the Editor-in-Chief ran through him, followed immediately by the tremendous anger which refused to go away.  He pushed himself from Emily’s desk with a soft ‘goodbye’ and headed towards his own office.</p><p>Miranda Priestly could figure this one out on her own.</p><p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p><p>That evening, in her townhouse office, Miranda flicked through the latest book delivered half-an-hour ago.  Her house was still far-too-quiet, and she was incredibly grateful the girls would be back tomorrow.  The loneliness she felt when they weren’t there almost caused her physical pain.  Emily had written a good draft and she made barely any adjustments to the piece before giving it a red <em>‘tick’</em> and turning the page.  Nigel and Emily’s conversation from that morning continued to play on her mind.  How Emily had seen Andrea at Calvin Klein, the fact she was at another get-together and Emily’s own apparent bitterness towards the young journalist. </p><p>She took a sip of wine and opened her laptop, typing ‘Andrea Sachs’ into Google, telling herself that she merely wanted to see the ‘earth-shattering articles’ Emily had mentioned.  She clicked on the first, finding a gossip piece about a celebrity couple’s likely divorce with the link to a second follow-up article.  A smirk pulled at her lips as she thought of Andrea’s initial interview nearly a year ago, at her assertion that she wanted to be a ‘true journalist’, of her janitor’s piece and her national award.  And yet now … Miranda scrolled down the page, her eyebrows raised, biting her bottom lip as she read over Andrea’s report of the dinner where she had stayed on Miranda’s hotel sofa.  Well, this spoke for itself. </p><p>Miranda leaned back into her chair, remembering how Andy had skidded inside the elevator before the doors had shut.  She had smelled the alcohol immediately and knew that the other woman was drunk, well above the legal driving limit.  <em>And she shouldn’t have cared,</em> she added to herself.  She should have let the reporter sleep in her car.  Instead, she offered her a place to stay and still didn’t fully understand why.</p><p>She closed the webpage and opened up the employee database and typed in ‘Andrea Sachs.’  As Editor-in-Chief she had access from her home computer.  She clicked on Andrea’s resume and scribbled down her email address before opening her own email account.  There were hundreds of emails, all which she ignored as she hit ‘compose’.  She wanted to <em>upset</em> the girl who made her feel whatever the hell this was, and knew exactly how to do it.  She wrote one sentence before hitting ‘send’ with her index finger, enjoying it far more than she should as she drank another mouthful of wine before letting her head fall back and trailing her fingertip around the glass rim.</p><p>In her living room, Andy scanned through the various files on her laptop, looking over what she deemed to be more important works.  These articles were the reason she had left Runway and yet here they remained.  Unread documents that no one seemed remotely interested in.  She opened up the latest document and read through the pages, changing various words and double-checking grammar.  This article, one on the current financial environment and its effect on the working class.  This was important, of value and what she should be doing.</p><p>She made a final edit before saving the file.  She had no wish to re-write the whole thing again; they always took far longer than expected.  She heard a soft ‘ding’, signalling an email and clicked on the inbox with curiosity.  She wasn’t expecting news from anyone and tried to give her personal email to as few people as possible.  Emails to this particular account were unusual.</p><p><em>From:  Miranda Priestly.<br/>
</em> <em>Subject:  Interesting.</em></p><p>Her eyes widened in surprise and she hit on the subject line, wanting it to open.  Miranda Priestly rarely gave compliments.  Immediately, her expression fell.  And it seemed now was no different.</p><p><em>A –<br/>
</em> <em>You could do a celebrity <strong>union</strong> piece next time.</em></p><p>Andy felt that all-too-familiar feeling of self-doubt rear its ugly head for the umpteenth time since she’d received Miranda’s note on the coffee table.  She could clearly recall her first meeting with the <em>Runway</em> Editor.  The shock as she had spoken to Emily with such disdain, her glance at Andy as she had moved into her office, gesturing that Emily follow.  A flush rose to Andy’s cheeks as she remembered stepping inside Miranda’s office to stand in front of her desk.  At the pride that ran through her voice when she spoke of her college journal articles.  The pride that quickly turned to insult at Miranda’s flick of her hands and contemptuous “that’s all.”</p><p>Without thinking, she found herself typing back and hit the ‘send’ button with a sharp <em>smack </em>that echoed through her apartment.</p><p><em>M –<br/>
</em> <em>As opposed to celebrity interviews?</em></p><p>Only seconds later, she received a reply.  Miranda must have also been sitting at her computer. </p><p><em>A –<br/>
</em> <em>I don’t try and lie to myself about what I publish. </em></p><p>Andy pushed her laptop away from her, wishing to god that Miranda was wrong and hating that she wasn’t.  She could easily imagine the editor sitting at her desk, writing the vindictive email, the small smirk on her lips as she hit <em>‘send’</em>, knowing exactly how to get beneath Andy’s skin.  Miranda may be bitter and cruel, but she was certainly not unintelligent.  She was one of the smartest people Andy had ever met in her life. She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes, wanting to give some snappy retort that would stop Miranda in her tracks, make her feel some of the pain she was feeling.</p><p>Nothing came to mind.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>Please review!  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Resentment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Miranda walked towards her office in her usual hostile silence.  She was well aware of the people scattering as they saw her approach but found she didn’t care as she walked through the doors towards the elevator.  She gave instructions to Emily which she barely remembered before taking her coffee and spinning around to look over the New York skyline.  She may have managed to hide it well but her current irritability was nothing more than a façade.  She was concerned for the girls, both who seemed to be going in completely opposite directions. </p>
<p>She had woken that morning with Caroline close to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her youngest twin.  She hadn’t remembered her daughter entering her bedroom, she’d obviously just held open her arms and led her slide in.  Caroline in her bed wasn’t too unusual, she had always been the more tactile of the twins; the one more likely to grant a hug, lie with her on the sofa and – as was happening increasingly often, perhaps <em>too </em>often – come in during the night. </p>
<p>“I’ve got the latest photos …” Nigel said from behind her, not bothering with a greeting.</p>
<p>Miranda turned back around, trying to push thoughts of her daughters to one side, concentrate on work, but they continued to niggle.</p>
<p>“I take it they’re better than the last?” she asked, sliding on her glasses as Nigel placed the folder in front of her.</p>
<p>That momentary flicker of concern showed in his eyes but left quickly.  He’d always been able to read her better than most; somehow able to see past the image she presented to every other member of the public.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he agreed.</p>
<p>“Thank god for small miracles,” she said sarcastically.</p>
<p>He didn’t respond as she opened the folder and pulled out the photographs.</p>
<p>“Let me look over these,” she continued, nodding towards the door.  “That’s all.”</p>
<p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p>
<p>“No,” Edward said sharply as he glanced over Andy’s latest piece.  “It’s not relevant.”</p>
<p>“How is it not relevant?” she snapped.  “People need to know this sort of thing is happening!  And…”</p>
<p>“If they’re that desperate, they can look it up elsewhere,” Edward interrupted.  “We need to get circulation numbers up.  After that, maybe we can expand a little.  However, right here and right now, we need to do what sells.”</p>
<p>Andy leaned into her seat as she crossed a line through her article plan, knowing the argument was lost and that Edward wasn’t about to back down anytime soon.  He had become more and more difficult throughout the year. </p>
<p>“There’s sort of party tomorrow,” a fellow reporter, Madison said from across the table.  “It looks like everyone who’s anyone is going …”</p>
<p>“Andy’s already going,” Edward interrupted.  “Correct?” he added, glancing across the table.</p>
<p>She nodded.  “Correct.”</p>
<p>A party where, knowing her luck, one Miranda Priestly would also be attending.  Her anger towards her former boss hadn’t lessened in the fortnight since she’d received the scathing and blunt emails  If anything, it had intensified until even the mere mention of ‘fashion’ or ‘Miranda Priestly’ got her back up.  And yet, here she would be again, reporting on the woman’s every move.</p>
<p>The irony was astounding.</p>
<p>But, if she wished to have some sort of income and not have to scrounge off her parents in order to pay her rent then these articles were necessary.  She opened up her email, looking at Miranda’s message, still wanting to send something that would stop the other woman point-blank and make her <em>hurt</em>.  And still, she came up with nothing.  Glaring at the screen, she opened up a new file and made short notes, knowing exactly what Edward would want.</p>
<p>Finished, she reached for her private notepad, coming to rest at a page she had written a few days ago. She often wrote down random things, observations, memories she deemed important, on whatever she could find.  Hence the reason for the multiple notepads scattered through her apartment and on her desk.  Nate had never understood why she had written anything down and frequently got angry when he found notepads around the apartment.  But it was Andy’s method of letting things out, getting herself to calm down.   </p>
<p>She could remember writing this one clearly; she’d been in her living room, fuming once again at Miranda’s note when her first working day at <em>Runway</em> came to mind. Before she knew it, she had scrawled this memory on a blank sheet.  Her snicker at the two nearly identical belts and Miranda’s scathing and methodical method of tearing her apart until she felt ten-years-old and three-foot-tall.  She glared at her own writing as she read down the page. </p>
<p>
  <em>That sweater is not just blue.  It’s not turquoise, it’s not lapis.  It’s actually cerulean.  </em>
</p>
<p>“Try and get back here before eleven so we can have it in tomorrow’s issue,” Edward said from over her shoulder, making her jump. “We’ll link it with today’s article and make it a series.”</p>
<p>She shoved the pile of notes deep into her drawer, not wanting anyone to see them.  </p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p>
<p>Irv had never quite forgiven Miranda for managing to stay in the Editor-in-Chief’s role and their afternoon meetings were often difficult and abrupt. He had placed greater restraints on her budget, making everything harder but wanted much more for every dollar spent.</p>
<p>“Why did you pull this piece?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“Because I needed to,” she answered coldly. </p>
<p>“And how much did that cost?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Enough.”</p>
<p>“That’s not an answer,” he said harshly.</p>
<p>Miranda closed her eyes for a moment, trying to give herself patience.  “$375,000,” she said eventually.</p>
<p>Irv’s jaw clenched.  “And you truly believe that was necessary?”</p>
<p>She folded her arms across her chest and glared at the chairman.  “Yes, I do.”</p>
<p>He looked down at the notes she had gathered for him, her neat outlines and clear explanations as to what went where and why.  There was nothing to fault and eventually, he let out a deep breath.</p>
<p>“And you’re going to the party tonight?” he asked.  “We need to try and appeal to a broader audience …”</p>
<p>“I arrive at eight,” she interrupted. </p>
<p>The party that would no doubt be full of sleazy men and painful women but where she would smile at the right time and make them feel important.  She gathered her notes together, effectively ending the meeting with Irv who looked as if he wanted to call her back but, once he looked at her expression, wisely decided not to.  She headed back to her office, noting the time on one of the hallway clocks.  <em>Five thirty, more than enough time to get home and have a quick dinner with the girls…</em></p>
<p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p>
<p>Night had fallen early and Andy shifted uncomfortably in her dress, wishing for a moment she’d kept some of the clothes she’d given to Emily.  At least she’d have something to wear to these goddamn events that didn’t make her stand out like a sore thumb. </p>
<p>She headed towards the bar but asked for a lemonade rather than her usual gin and tonic.  She was adult enough to recognise that her previous behaviour was silly, dangerous even.</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me you’re learning from past mistakes,” a far-too-familiar voice said from behind her.</p>
<p>Andy closed her eyes for a moment but nonetheless turned around.  Miranda was standing behind her looking disdainful.  She was dressed in a dark olive, almost black dress and the expense of the dress could be seen merely in the way it clung so perfectly to every curve of her body, complimenting anything and everything about her. </p>
<p>“I should thank you,” Andy admitted.  “For letting me… you know.”</p>
<p>Miranda smirked and gave a false laugh as she continued forward and called over the barman, asking for a glass of white wine.  Andy noticed that he somehow managed to get Miranda’s order well before her own.</p>
<p>“A <em>party </em>this time,” Miranda was saying cynically.  “You really are moving up the ranks.”</p>
<p>Andy rose to her feet and walked away, no longer caring about the lemonade.  She glanced at her wrist, remembering Edward’s instructions to get something in by eleven.</p>
<p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p>
<p>Miranda woke before her alarm, unsurprised to find Caroline next to her.  She had woken when Miranda had returned from the party and scrambled into Miranda’s bed as she disassembled herself.  She’d already been asleep when Miranda had re-emerged from the bathroom in her nightgown.  Miranda placed a kiss to the top of her head before unfolding herself from around her daughter and heading down the hall.</p>
<p>She peered into Cassidy’s bedroom leaning against the doorframe as she looked her other daughter.  Miranda felt her eyes sting, recognising herself in Cassidy who was becoming and more and more aloof with each passing week.  Miranda had pulled away from her mother when she was the same age and – if she were honest – they had never become truly close again.  The thought this might happen with herself and Cassidy was terrifying.</p>
<p>The harsh shriek of her alarm sounded and she turned quickly and went back into her own bedroom.  Caroline had woken but barely moved, choosing instead to roll onto her back and stare at the ceiling.</p>
<p>“Why do you have to get up so early, mom?” she complained as Miranda walked around the bed to turn off the alarm.</p>
<p>Miranda smiled gently.  “Just lucky,” she answered.  “Stay a little longer,” she continued.  “I have to get ready.”</p>
<p>Caroline’s eyes were already closing as she fell asleep again.  Miranda watched her for a few seconds, hoping that her younger twin wouldn’t follow in her sister’s footsteps and pull away before going into the bathroom to take care of her usual morning routine.  It didn’t take all that long and, once finished, she nudged Caroline awake and told her to get ready before heading downstairs.</p>
<p>Contrary to popular belief, she was a relatively good cook and within minutes the smell of pancakes and maple syrup filled the kitchen.  Cassidy was the first twin to come downstairs and gave a perfunctory nod as she sat down and Miranda pushed a plate of pancakes towards her. </p>
<p>“Thanks,” she said, cutting them up and taking a mouthful.</p>
<p>Miranda nodded, about to answer when her mobile phone gave a soft <em>‘beep.’</em>  <em>No doubt work</em>, she thought irritably, <em>unable to do anything independently.  </em>She swiped the screen, surprised to see a news notification.  Curious, she opened the article and a smile tugged at her lips as she read over one Andrea Sachs’ article.  The one describing in detail the party Miranda had been at the previous night, the importance of the fashion industry and every other thing Miranda could well imagine Andrea hating to type.</p>
<p>“What’s so funny?” Cassidy demanded.</p>
<p>Miranda turned her attention to her daughter as she typed a quick email before placing her phone back on the counter.  Cassidy had always been blunt and to-the-point.</p>
<p>“Nothing at all.”</p>
<p>
  <em>-o-</em>
</p>
<p>Andy was dreaming; knew she was dreaming.  The colours were too bright, too perfect to be anything dreamworld.  She was watching her graduate-self and Miranda from some sort of angel’s nook outside the Elias-Clarke office window.  She could see the back of Miranda’s head from her hidden vantage point, the perfectly coiffed hair, the slender neck.  Her younger self was getting angry at the other woman’s demeanour, her dismissive tone though, to her credit, she hid it well.</p>
<p>
  <em>“You have no style or sense of fashion.”<br/></em>
  <em>"I think that depends on…"</em>
  <em><br/>"No, no.  That wasn’t a question.”</em>
</p>
<p>She turned the conversation on mute, continued to watch in a weird, eerie silence as Miranda flicked her hands hinting that Andy should leave.  She screamed at herself to get the hell out, take the conversation and the veiled insults on the chin and leave.  Instead, her past self spun back around to explain <em>why</em> she would be a good assistant, why she <em>belonged</em> at Runway.</p>
<p>She slid through the window glass to stand at the side of Miranda’s desk, looking back and forth between the two dream caricatures.  Miranda had removed her glasses and tilted her head a fraction to the side as she examined Andy through narrowed eyes.  Nigel rushed into the office, knocking her slightly against the shoulder as he passed, a new manuscript in his hands.  He placed it on the desk, completely engaging Miranda’s attention who didn’t bother sparing her a second glance as she looked down at the opened pages.</p>
<p>As she walked out of the office, Andy could recognise the feeling of resignation in her own face as she trudged toward the elevator, ready to go and call Human Resources again.  Her current self hadn’t moved an inch and continued to look at Miranda and Nigel.  Had Miranda told Nigel to step aside for a moment as she called in Emily to run after her?  Had she held up her hand, silencing him before she called the first assistant?</p>
<p>The dream shifted and she was seeing the scene now through her own eyes rather than as an observer.  Walking in the main hall, hearing Emily voice from behind her and turning around.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Andrea!”</em>
</p>
<p>She walked toward the other woman who was already waiting at the elevator.</p>
<p><em>“I’ve no idea what she’s thinking,”</em> Emily admitted as the doors slid open and they stepped inside.  <em>“You’re not remotely the right person but…”  </em>Emily shrugged her shoulders.  “<em>Miranda is Miranda so…”</em></p>
<p>Andy woke up with a jolt.  It was very early morning with the sun barely grazing the horizon.  She went to the window, peering out at the nearly-empty street  Summer had faded into fall, sending a chill through the air. The cooler temperatures were pleasant but they also showed that time was passing and her only true article success was rooted in an industry she tried her best to despise.</p>
<p>Andy closed her eyes for a moment before turning toward the kitchen.  If she were to be able to function at any capacity, coffee was certainly needed.  She heard a faint <em>‘ding’</em> from her open laptop as she entered the living room and hurried over to open her email.</p>
<p>
  <em>From:  Miranda Priestly.<br/></em>
  <em>Subject:  Party.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
  <em>A –<br/></em>
  <em>‘Fashion Legend’?  How very sweet. </em>
</p>
<p>Andy wanted to scream.</p>
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  <em>Please review.</em>
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